An Irregular Christmas
by cjnwriter
Summary: It's that time of the year again, folks! Prepare for the 2016 edition of HadesLordoftheDead's December Calendar Challenge! Best of luck to all participating, and I hope you all enjoy my stories.
1. Fireside Conversation

**A/N: I can hardly believe it's my fifth time participating in this challenge! Big thanks to HadesLordoftheDead for making this possible year after year. :)**

 **December 1: "Future" (from Winter Winks 221)**

* * *

Watson and I were seated by the fire one chilly December evening, each of us reading and when the fancy struck one of us, talking. It was after my retirement, and I was glad to have company besides my bees and distant neighbors.

"Holmes," said Watson at length.

I gestured for him to continue.

"Have you ever wondered how the world will change in the future? You know, after we are long gone." My Boswell was frowning, the combination of that and the firelight deepening the new wrinkles in his face and aging him more than I was comfortable seeing.

I frowned as well, pondering his question as I gazed into the crackling flames. I had thought of it often lately; the combination of the recent Great War and my own age was likely what had led me to the thought. "I suppose all sorts of machines will be made to run quicker and more efficiently, and the human race will certainly develop more advanced techniques for detective work and medicine over time." I glanced at my friend with a smile. "Soon we and our methods will be quite archaic."

Watson laughed, which was the reaction I was hoping for. "We are already well on our way to that, I'm afraid. Although," he added, a peculiar glint in his eye, "somehow I can't imagine your methods of observation and deduction will ever be obsolete."

I should hope not! What a terrible fate for detection that would be. But Watson had meant it as a compliment as much as anything, so I smiled and took it as such. "I suppose if my methods are to live on, it is only right that your stories do also," I said.

Watson waved an airy hand and shook his head. "I can't imagine they will. There are too many writers in the world with far more talent than I shall ever have."

I thought my friend was selling himself rather short, and said as much.

My Boswell's face lit up with a grin. "Quite a change, from your initial opinion of my 'romantic drivel'."

I smiled and gave an easy shrug. Anything I could say in response to that, my Boswell already knew.

"Just how many of my stories have you read?" Watson asked.

I hesitated for a moment, more for the sake of his amusement than any indecision on my part. "All of them."

"Ha!" Watson laughed. "I should have known."

Curiosity had gotten the better of me many years ago. After sharing another grin with my biographer, we returned to what we had been reading before.

I could not have asked for a more pleasant evening.


	2. Underhanded Methods

**December 2: "A pocket watch runs mysteriously fast/slow" (from Riandra)**

* * *

It was very late when Watson and I returned to Baker Street that evening. A late dinner at Simpson's followed by an unexpected manhunt (the serial bank robber I had been tracking for weeks made the mistake of showing his face this time. We did catch the fellow, but it took five constables, two Scotland Yard Inspectors, Watson, myself, and a good deal of agility to do it) combined to keep us out and about until nearly three in the morning.

Watson had not been sleeping enough for weeks now; a nasty bout of influenza sweeping London had given he and his fellow doctors more patients than they could readily handle. I knew he would be out of bed early in a few short hours, but I could not imagine he would be in a fit state to care for anybody, including himself.

I decided to take matters into my own hands.

It was a quarter past three when I crept up up the stairs to Watson's bedroom, small candle in hand, and made a little alteration or two in my friend's pocket watch. Perhaps it was not fair play, but since when did I ever follow society's rules? Now he ought to sleep peacefully until about ten or eleven.

I crept softly back down the stairs, and rummaged through Watson's desk until I found the names and addresses of two kind doctors who lived nearby.

I spent a couple hours organizing my case notes, and at half past five, I left to call on the first gentleman, Dr. Stewart, as his address was closest. The door was opened by a slightly bleary-eyed girl.

"Good morning, sir," she said. "I'm sorry, but the doctor won't begin seeing patients for a few hours."

"Perfect," I replied.

She looked rather confused.

"I am not ill," I explained. "I should like to see if Dr. Stewart can take care of my friend Dr. Watson's practice until afternoon."

She led me to a small room to await Dr. Stewart. The man joined me in about three minutes, and I explained the situation to him.

"Well, Mr. Holmes," he said, "I don't know why I couldn't handle his practice until noon. I would rather not see the poor fellow fall ill from overwork."

I thanked the man, and returned to Baker Street.

It was, as expected, about ten when my friend stumbled down the stairs.

"Morning, Holm—what the devil?!"

I glanced toward my friend, to see him staring in horror at the clock on the mantle.

"Is that really the time?" he gasped.

"I am afraid so," I replied.

"But my watch, it—it—"

"I took rather a liberty with it, I must confess," I said.

Watson was deucedly unhappy now, and called me some rather wretched names (a certain testament to his lack of sleep). When I finally could get a word in edgewise, I explained that I had arranged for Dr. Stewart to take care of his patients until noon.

"Oh," said Watson. "Well, that is a different matter, then."

"Go back to bed," I said. "I'll wager you can sneak another hour in before you have to leave."

He yawned, nodded, and shambled back to bed.


	3. Six Cups of Coffee

**December 3: "Watson overdoses on coffee. This cannot be good." (from Aleine Skyfire)**

 **A/N: Features a highly caffeinated, slightly OOC Watson. Brace yourselves…**

* * *

I slept rather late into the morning one day to find that Watson had already risen and taken breakfast.

"Morning, Holmes!" he replied with a chipper grin.

"Morning," I returned, with significantly less enthusiasm. I sat down at the table and rang for the maid. I needed coffee, so badly I could practically smell it. No, I really could smell coffee. That did not make sense; Watson did not drink coffee. My nose must be deceiving me.

I glanced over at my friend, who was flipping quickly through a notebook and whistling to himself, tapping a foot to the beat of whatever wretched tune was stuck in his head.

I picked up a newspaper and attempted to ignore him, but it was no use.

"Watson," I growled at length, "do cease that infernal noise."

"Oh, sorry, Holmes!" he said. "I didn't mean to distract you!"

There was definitely something wrong here. "Are you feeling all right, my dear fellow?" I asked.

Watson looked puzzled. "I'm perfectly well. Very well indeed! Why on earth would you ask a thing like that?"

I shrugged. "You do not seem quite yourself, and I am convinced that I can smell coffee. You told me once you hated the stuff, but I am beginning to suspect you may have partaken of it."

Watson grinned sheepishly, now practically wriggling in his seat as his foot continued to tap upon the floor. "I hadn't tried it in years, and I thought I could use something to clear away the cobwebs this morning. What a beautiful day it is!"

"Is it?" I replied dryly. "Just how much coffee did you drink?"

Watson gave a large shrug. "A bit."

"Watson…" I said in warning tone.

"Just a few cups!" He waved a hand in what was supposed to be an airy manner, but it looked rather more like he was swatting away insects with gusto.

Just a few cups, oh, this was just wonderful. I sighed and rubbed my left temple. "How many cups?"

"Six!" Watson replied. "It's quite good, actually."

"Good heavens!" I cried. For a doctor, he could be quite neglectful of his own wellbeing.

"I feel fine!" he replied. "I've managed to tidy my bedroom and the sitting room, reorganize all of your case notes going back ten years, and write up a new story I'm calling 'The Mazarin Stone'! It's so exciting!"

"Quite so," I replied dully. At least he had made rather good use of himself. All the same, I needed to convince him never to consume that much coffee at once again, or I shall go insane!


	4. Close Call

**December 4: "Moran does not know what to get Moriarty for Christmas." (from I'm Nova)**

* * *

The December evening had swiftly grown dark and cold, but the the shop-lined street, well-lit by the street lamps and the lights of the little shops, was teeming with bustling shoppers. Adults politely pushed past one another, stopping occasionally to converse, children quietly or vociferously indicated which things they liked in shop windows and the occasional child would begin to cry or wail, to the embarrassment of the parents.

This was hardly a situation in which Colonel Sebastian Moran felt comfortable. The mustachioed veteran slipped carefully through the crowd, peering over the hats and bonnets of passersby in an attempt to glimpse what was available for sale. He mentally cursed himself for getting into this mess in the first place.

Just two days prior to the events now unfolding, Moran had an unfortunate incident involving his knocking an inkwell over onto important documents of Moriarty's, which swiftly became quite ink-covered and ruined. The Professor was livid, and Moran had left his office that day rather like a beaten dog, tail between his legs. With Christmas so nearby, a gift seemed to be a convenient way to make it up to his employer, but what would a criminal mastermind want for Christmas? This was the question that plagued the unfortunate Moran as he dodged parcel-laden mothers and energetic children the evening of December the twenty-third.

One shop seemed to be filled with things handy for scientific inquiry; he could see a telescope, a microscope, and a few Bunsen burners through the window. This seemed a more promising place to find something for a mathematics professor than any of the others, so Moran weaved is way to the door.

It was warmer inside the shop than it was outdoors, thank goodness, and a deal less crowded too. Moran frowned as his eyes scanned up and down rows of various implements of chemical equipment, astronomy, and some things which he could not put a name to. His eye fell upon a cluster of paperweights fashioned out of beautiful stones, and made to head across the shop towards them, colliding head-on into a shorter gentleman in a brown coat and bowler hat.

"My apologies," said the stranger, though Moran knew the fault was entirely his own.

"Likewise," he replied, now looking the at man he had plowed into full in the face. With a jolt, he recognized him as Dr. John Watson, the companion of Sherlock Holmes.

"Are you all right, sir?" asked Watson, his expression full of concern.

"Perfectly," was Moran's curt reply. He stalked quickly toward the display of paperweights. It seemed Dr. Watson had not recognized him, thank goodness. He snatched up a suitable looking paperweight, raised his eyebrows a bit at the price, then headed toward the shopkeeper to pay for the article. As he left, he cast a sideways glance toward Watson, who was carefully eyeing a fine magnifying glass.

The entire situation was rather too close a call.


	5. Just This Once

**December 5: "I refuse to dress as Father Christmas." (from Aleine Skyfire)**

* * *

"But Mycroft—"

"Sherlock, are you deaf or stupid? The answer is _no_!"

The younger brother pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his brow with a sigh. "You know how much it would mean to the boys. My Irregulars are the last children in London to experience a happy Christmas."

Mycroft waved a flabby hand. "If it is so important to you, you shall find someone else. Why not Watson?"

Sherlock shook his head. "They would never leave the Doctor's side long enough, and would immediately suspect something was awry if he vanished. Please, Mycroft?"

"No."

"I'll pay you handsomely," Sherlock attempted.

"You already owe me money, brother mine," Mycroft returned with a snort.

Sherlock's shoulder slumped. "Well, I suppose I shall just have to disappoint them. Poor lads—a couple of them have never received a Christmas gift in their lives, you know."

Mycroft looked rather uncomfortable.

"If nothing else," Sherlock went on, "I shall be able to keep them from going hungry. But I had been really hoping you would cooperate; in fact I told the boys we would likely have a visitor. Disappointing them in that way, well, that is not something I will enjoy."

Now it was Mycroft's turn to mop his brow. "Well, er, perhaps something might be arranged…"

Sherlock's face lit up with delight. "Thank you, dear brother!"

"That doesn't mean I want to do this," Mycroft cautioned. "And don't bother asking me to do something like this ever again!"

Sherlock continued to grin. "Just this once?"

Mycroft heaved a heavy sigh. "Just this once."


	6. Footprints in the Snow

**December 6: "Footprints in the snow." (from Wordwielder)**

 **A/N: This tale's a bit longer than the rest of mine have been this year. Enjoy!**

* * *

Years ago, Sherlock Holmes taught me the many varied things one can learn from footprints: height, weight, length of stride; if they were running, walking, or on tiptoe; if they were alone or in a group; if they were led along, dragged forward, or pursued from behind…

All of these lessons flashed though my head in a panicked jumble as I frantically pursued the footprints of my dearest friend before they were filled in by the gently falling snow.

 _"I'm sure to be back by evening," Holmes said as he put on his hat._

 _"And if you are not?" I pressed._

 _"I will be back, I swear it," he said with a laugh. "You worry too much, old fellow."_

Afternoon, evening, and sundown had all come and gone, taking with them all the warmth the sunlight had provided. I was dressed for the weather, but the chill in my heart was deeper than any a thermometer could indicate. It had been four hours since I had last seen my friend, one hour since I had started my search, and nearly twenty minutes since the snow had begun to fall.

I needed to move quickly, if I were to have any hope of finding him. I held my lantern aloft, trying to see how long Holmes had followed this forest path and trying not to think of what might be happening to him. Neither of us were as young as we once were, and I had been uneasy from the start with his suggestion that he go alone to take a quick look around Mr. Crowley's hunting lodge. I had allowed him to talk me into it, though, something I now deeply regretted.

 _"The distance from heel to heel or toe to toe is what you ought to pay attention to," Holmes had told me once. "It is generally near a third of the person's height, but factors such as age or injury can easily shift the ratio."_

The distance between Holmes' footprints was still normal; at least he was not injured at this point.

I quickened my pace despite the protests of my aching limbs, especially my war-wounded leg. Night was falling in earnest now, but my lantern still burned brightly enough for me to watch the prints. I walked a long distance, shivering at intervals. I watched as far along the path as I could with my little light, and no difference could be seen in Holmes' bootprints.

That is, until I reached a clearing.

My heart hammering in my chest, I saw the snow was all churned up as if in a struggle. Two other sets of footprints came from the left and the right. The one from the left had far wider boots, which left a deeper indentation in the snow.

 _"Weight is difficult to gauge based solely on a footprint, but it can be compared if there is more than one set of footprints at hand."_

The man on the left was undoubtedly heavier than Holmes, and based on the stride, nearly his height. I turned my attention to the footprints from the right. These were closer together and a little splay-footed; he was shorter than both Holmes and his companion, and probably between them in weight. They had come suddenly out from the trees, resulting in a struggle.

I took several paces forward. The footprints of the two attackers walked side by side, with Holmes' steps in between. I gave a brief smile when I realized the impressions of his heels were as deep as those of his toes; Holmes was never one to allow anyone to show his fear. I could not see any blood in the snow, another good sign.

I trudged onward through the snow. It was falling thicker and faster now, and it was growing more and more difficult to make out the impressions in the snow before me. I struggled once again to quicken my pace, but the wind was in my face now, making forward progress even colder and more exhausting than it had been before. I felt as though I must have small icicles clinging to my eyebrows and mustache by now. I hoped that Holmes was somewhere warm.

Just as I was despairing of being able to follow the footprints much longer, I saw a light through the trees and the faint scent of smoke met my frozen nostrils. Around the next bend in the path stood a mid-sized cottage, yellow light streaming from the windows and smoke curling out of the chimney into the black, starless sky.

The footprints remained the same until the doorstep, where it was once again churned up. I could not tell what had happened, except that it was some sort of struggle. I knelt closer to the ground and saw with a jolt a number of drops of blood beneath the snow.

Staying close to the ground, I crept towards the nearest window, and slowly straightened up until I could just see over the windowsill.

The sight that greeted me is one I shall never forget.

To the left, two men were seated in chairs set back to back, a thick rope wrapped round them, binding them to their chairs and to one another. To the right sat Holmes, reclined lazily in an armchair by the fire, taking a long drag on a cigarette.

I went from relieved to livid in a matter of seconds; I was very glad he was unhurt, but he had frightened me half to death!

I returned to the door of the cottage and banged loudly upon it. Through the little window in the door, I saw Holmes give a violent start, nearly dropping his cigarette before picking up his pistol from a table and stepping cautiously towards the door.

Shock and recognition dawned upon his thin features as he met my eyes through the window. A moment later, he'd set down the cigarette and pistol, thrown the door open, and practically dragged me inside.

"Good heavens, man!" he cried. "You look half frozen to death!"

"I'm darn close, at any rate," I growled, shaking him off as he attempted to help me with my coat. "You said you would be back by evening, Holmes."

He lowered his gaze. "I am sorry, Watson. I lost track of the time, and then I ran into these two fine fellows, and then the storm started…I'd hoped you would wait until morning. Forgive me, old fellow."

I sighed heavily. "If you truly thought I'd wait that long, it seems you do not know me quite so well as you think," I said with a smile, relief winning out over anger now as I handed my friend my frosty outerwear.

"You've just grown more stubborn with age, that's all," said Holmes, quirking an impish grin.

"Very funny," I replied.

Holmes settled me into a chair by the fire and hung up my winter things to dry before sitting back down in the chair across.

"What on earth happened?" I asked. "Based on the footprints, it looked as though you were attacked, twice."

Holmes smiled. "Very good, Watson! I see you have remembered at least a little of what I taught you. However, I was attacked only once, as I was the one doing the attacking the second time."

"You overpowered both of them?" I asked, nodding to the two men tied up across the room.

The nearer one groaned. "He's spry, for an old fellow."

Holmes grinned. "I have not yet lost all of my strength, nor my knowledge of baritsu. Once we reached the cottage, I made my move, managing to incapacitate my captors just long enough to find a couple of chairs and a length of rope."

I laughed and shook my head. "Impressive. I'm just glad you are all right."

"And I you, Watson," my friend replied with a smile.


	7. A Midnight Clear

**December 7: "A midnight clear." (from Riandra)**

* * *

For years, Holmes and I had made it a tradition on Christmas Eve to stay up talking and laughing or just sitting peacefully by the fire until midnight on Christmas Eve. I wanted to keep this tradition alive in some way, despite the fact that Holmes had broken his leg rather badly yesterday, and the doctor wished him to stay in the hospital until the next morning. Christmas morning.

Needless to say, none of us were overly happy with this arrangement. Holmes was always unhappy being in the hospital, I was unhappy seeing Holmes ill or injured, Mrs. Hudson was unhappy that she could not make the wonderful feast for us that she had planned for this evening, and all of the hospital staff grew quite unhappy when Holmes began deducing rather hurtful things about each of them.

Dr. Carthage entered the room warily at about nine-thirty and looked Holmes' leg over once more. Nothing he said was news to me, familiar as I was with fractures of all sorts, but his conclusion did startle me.

"Mr. Holmes," he said, adjusting his thick framed glasses, "I know I said earlier that you would have to stay under observation until tomorrow morning, but as you are in the unusual position of lodging with a perfectly capable doctor, I am changing my recommendation. You are welcome to leave immediately, so long as you keep your leg elevated and take some mode of transportation home that jolts you as little as possible."

I looked at Holmes, who was staring at the doctor in slack-jawed shock. "Thank you!"

"Yes, yes," said Dr. Carthage, "Now get out of here before another nurse tells me she would sooner quit than check up on you." He was smiling, but it was clear his words were not entirely a jest.

I bade him a very happy Christmas, and Holmes (to both my and Carthage's surprise) apologized to the poor doctor for what he had said earlier about the man's wife.

By the time we made it home, Holmes was still in rather a deal of pain, but we were both glad to be back. By some miracle, Mrs. Hudson heard the door open and was almost immediately fussing over Holmes and offering to make us hot cocoa. We gladly accepted the offer, and settled into our usual seats by the fire, Holmes with his leg propped up on the settee which I had moved closer to him for that purpose.

It was soon nearing midnight, and Holmes and I had finished our warming drinks and sat peacefully, watching the flames. Over Holmes' shoulder, I could see the window, so it immediately caught my eye when white light began to pour in. I approached the window and pulled back the curtain, allowing the moonlight to stream in all the more readily.

"Not a cloud in the sky," I commented, staring up at the nearly full moon and the bright, twinkling stars." I stepped to the side of the window.

Holmes craned his head neck a bit to see outside. "Quite so," he replied with a smile. I returned to my chair, and we sat comfortably until the stroke of midnight.

Neither of us could have asked for a better Christmas Eve.


	8. Unexpected Guest

**A/N: Shout out to guest reviewer "ohmygoodness," who I can't thank directly, but whose review made me smile. Thank you!**

 **And while I'm at it, thanks again to everyone who has read and reviewed my stories this year. I always enjoy your kind feedback. :)**

 **December 8: "There's a sleigh at Baker Street." (from Book girl fan)**

* * *

"WATSON!"

The sound of my name being shouted from the other end of the flat is what awakened me from a peaceful slumber and drove me out of my warm (oh, so very warm) bed and down to the sitting room before seven in the morning.

I entered the sitting room with a groan, too tired and cold to care if Holmes knew I was rather displeased with being awoken in that fashion at this hour.

"What is it, Holmes?" I asked, looking round for him. I realized a moment later he was in his bedroom, and stepped carefully in, attempting to avoid the miscellaneous debris on his floor.

"Look out the window," said Holmes, who was doing so himself at the moment.

"I'm not in the mood for deduction games," I replied, but I was already approaching the window. Curiosity was a trait of mine which had only grown during the years of my association with Sherlock Holmes.

"You've a shot at winning this one," said Holmes. "I haven't a clue what is happening."

I joined Holmes at the window and stared down at the street below, to see a bright red sleigh stopped in the back garden outside of our flat, along with seven reindeer

"Good heavens," I breathed as a portly white-haired fellow dressed all in red (with a complexion to match) emerged from the unusual mode of transportation. "Holmes, I have a feeling we both know exactly what is happening."

Holmes turned to look at me, a mixture of fear and disbelief etched upon his features.

"Father Christmas must have a mystery that needs unraveling," I said.

Holmes shook his head. "No, no, no! This cannot be happening, Watson!"

I was excited by the prospect of meeting the jolly old gentleman, so Holmes' reaction came as a bit of a shock. "Whatever is the matter, old boy?"

"Well, as a child, I—well, to make long story short, I set Father Christmas's trousers on fire as a child once, while he was coming down the chimney. An accident, of course! Well, sort of an accident. It was on purpose, but I didn't think it would work…" He shook his head. "I was stuck on the 'naughty' list for three years after that! Three years, Watson! If Mycroft isn't still laughing about it I'll be very much surprised to hear it."

It was more than I could do to stifle the laugh that rose to my lips. I attempted to mask it as a rather strange sounding cough, which Holmes seemed to see through, for he scowled blackly.

"You must convince him to go away, Watson," said Holmes. "Tell him I am out, or ill, or something. Anything!"

I shrugged, doubting that would be overly effective. If someone was seeking assistance from a man who had once set his trousers alight, he would probably not be put off so easily.

Just then, there was a loud knocking at the back door. I rushed down the stairs into the kitchen to answer it. When I opened the door, sure enough, there was Father Christmas.

"Good morning, Dr. Watson!" he exclaimed as he entered.

"Same to you, er, Mr. Christmas," I replied, suddenly uncertain what I ought to call him.

"Oh, I answer to Mr. Christmas," he said with a jolly laugh. I hung his hat and coat on the stand and ushered him up to the sitting room.

While he was settling into a chair, I stoked the fire. "What brings you to Baker Street?" I asked

"One of my reindeer is missing," said Father Christmas gloomily. (I did not realize he was capable of looking gloomy, but I assure you, dear readers, he looked positively dismal.) "I was rather hoping Sherlock Holmes could help me."

"I'm very sorry to inform you that he is, ah, indisposed at the moment," I said.

"Mhmm," said Father Christmas, sounding unconvinced. He turned towards Holmes' room, the door of which was not closed. "Mr. Holmes!" he bellowed. "I'm no longer angry about the incident when you were five; the burns healed long ago and I own more than one pair of trousers. Come on out and help and old man find his reindeer!"

The door of Holmes' room opened slowly, and the detective ambled into the room. "I am quite glad to hear all is forgiven," said Holmes stiffly.

Father Christmas laughed. "I am hardly the sort of gentleman who would hold a grudge for over thirty years, you know."

"But you did hold it for three," said Holmes, unable to keep the irritation out of his voice.

Father Christmas turned to me. "Wouldn't you?"

I grinned. "Absolutely."

"This is intolerable," Holmes growled. "Get on with it. Where did you last see this missing reindeer?"

 _To be continued, if time and inspiration allows…_

* * *

 **A/N: If anybody's wondering what happened to Rudolph, the first eight reindeer are from an 1823 poem, whereas Rudolph didn't join their number till 1939. Trivia of the day!**


	9. Well Done, Lestrade

**December 9: "Lestrade saves the day." (from mrspencil)**

* * *

Geoffrey Lestrade often worked long, hard hours in order to protect his fellow man. That was, after all, the reason he chose his profession. As a child and young man, he saw how terrible it was that crime went unpunished and mysteries unsolved. He vowed to never let those things happen on his watch.

Lestrade soon learned that that is easier said than done, and that even working his way up to Detective Inspector did not ensure he would catch every crook, rogue, and killer in London.

There was one man who seemed to be able to, however, Lestrade discovered early in his career. The man was not even as old as himself, but his brain could make sense of things beyond Lestrade and his colleagues' understanding in less time than it took to blink. And he could be an arrogant ass, but as long as he was helping in the pursuit of justice, Lestrade didn't mind as much as he might have otherwise. This young upstart called Holmes grew older and wiser even while Lestrade did, and over the years Holmes pointed him down the right path too many times to count. Over time, also, Lestrade began to pick up on those things Holmes deemed important, and grew more and more skilled at unravelling cases simply by thinking of what Holmes would do in his place.

Then one day, forty-odd years into his career, a truly puzzling case came along: a locked-room murder, which the papers were quick to call "unsolvable," but that only pushed Lestrade to think harder on it. Two other Inspectors were also working on the case, but neither of them payed attention to the windowpanes, which Lestrade realised was of the utmost importance. As such, Lestrade was the only Inspector to notice the faint fingerprints lining the edge of one pane in particular. Once the prints were lifted, it was determined that the pane of glass had been removed upon the murderer's exit, and that he had locked the window by putting his hand through the pane to slide the lock into place, and then replacing the glass once more. Armed with this knowledge as well as the fingerprints, they had found their killer and solved the case within a week.

For the subsequent two weeks, the papers boomed with Lestrade's name, heaping praise upon him and his fellow Inspectors, and Lestrade received many words of praise and gratitude from his superiors, as well as fellow Inspectors and others, down to the lowest ranking constable.

There was only one man's praise, however, that truly made Lestrade glow with pride: a phone call from Baker Street arrived the day after the case was closed, just to say, "Well done, Lestrade; I am proud."


	10. A Lack of Christmas Cheer

**December 10: "Wreath." (from Wordwielder)**

 **A/N: Just a bit of dialog today, as I have a lot of studying to do.**

* * *

"Watson!"

"What is it Holmes?"

"What the _devil_ is this on our door?"

"…A wreath, Holmes."

"Why is it on our door?"

"Christmas is in less than a week. I thought something festive would be in order, especially as you will not allow me to decorate the sitting room."

"Hmph. Well, I would rather you didn't decorate the front door either. I don't need clients supposing I take an interest in that sort of thing."

"All right, Scrooge."

"What was that? I couldn't quite hear you, old fellow."

"Nothing. But you must realize that nearly all the houses on this part of Baker Street have a wreath, so our door will stick out like a sore thumb without one."

"If all the doors in London had a wreath but ours, I would care not one iota."

"It does make the door appear more welcoming, though. If we take it down, you risk losing clients."

"Do you really think so, or are you only saying that to convince me to leave the thing up?"

"Of course I think so! Just this once, will you let 221b sport a little Christmas cheer?"

"Hmph! If you insist. I will not risk losing clients over such a triviality."

"Thank you, Holmes."

"For what? I have given no favors. You won this argument fairly."

"Hm. Never mind."


	11. Young Love

**December 11: "Wiggins has a girlfriend." (from Spockologist)**

* * *

Mr. Holmes, being a man quite skilled at observation, could not fail to notice the changes in the appearance and mannerism of his chief street urchin, Wiggins, over the years he worked for Holmes. All boys do grow up, after all; Holmes knew this factually, but to observe it in a child so dear to him was strange indeed. This was as close to parenthood as he was comfortable reaching.

As Wiggins grew taller and lankier and began to sport a few stray hairs on his chin, the other boys (all younger) began to joke about how grown up Wiggins was, and how he would soon "get 'isself a man's job an' a missus," which was met with laughs all around, despite its inevitability.

Even for Holmes, it was a surprise when three of the Irregulars pounded on his door at half past nine to inform him they had been tailing Wiggins, and spotted him going for a stroll in the park with a girl his age.

"Should we stop 'im?" asked Davis.

Holmes frowned. "No, I think you boys had better leave him be."

"Aw," groaned Tom, "I don' much like the look o' that lass."

"Well," said Holmes diplomatically, "The course of true love never did run smooth, they say, and I imagine if she is not right for Wiggins it will end soon enough. Don't worry yourselves about it—ah! Perfect timing Mrs. Hudson; yes, biscuits would be wonderful."

The boys departed, their pockets full of biscuits, with a promise to leave Wiggins and his lady friend alone.

A few more years passed. Wiggins was soon on the path of becoming a police constable, his girlfriend, Anna, still by his side. A few years after that, and Holmes was attending their wedding. Shakespeare was wrong about love in this instance, Holmes mused as Anna, who looked quite lovely even in such a cheap wedding gown, walked down the aisle. For Wiggins it ran quite smoothly indeed.


	12. The Door at 221b

**December 12: "Tale from the point of view of an inanimate object." (from I'm Nova)**

 **A/N: This ended up significantly longer than anticipated. I'm not sure if I should apologize or not. xD**

* * *

The front door of 221b Baker Street had seen far stranger than most doors had, at least in that part of London. After Mr. Hudson died, and Mrs. Hudson began taking tenants, there were several that came and went so quickly that the door could no longer recall their faces. There were two tenants, however, that he would never forget.

When Holmes and Watson first moved in, they seemed to the door to be perfectly normal tenants. They brought with them boxes and bags of the usual variety, though Holmes carried more than Watson. As the weeks passed, however, things began to change. People from all sorts of places and professions came knocking loudly upon him or ringing at the bell: unsavory men, weeping widows, fine young ladies, aristocrats, and occasionally even royalty would come knocking. The poor door often felt he was over or underdressed, with such a variety of people coming and going all the time.

The door soon realized that Holmes was helping these people, and he rather liked that. Holmes did not seem to be the nicest man (the door liked the good Doctor far more than Holmes), but if he was doing good, the door felt he ought not to complain.

Years passed, and the door learned new faces. Lestrade soon became quite familiar to the door, as did Gregson and later Hopkins. A number of ragged young boys came often too, and despite their dirty faces and similar ages, the door was eventually able to tell who was who.

A young lady called Mary also became a familiar face. The door liked Mary quite well, for she always made the Doctor happy. She came quite often for a length of time, and then without warning (it seemed to the door) she was helping him pack. The door was shocked: his favorite tenant was deserting him! But he came to terms with it soon enough: all tenants moved out eventually, and who better for him to leave with than this kind Mary?

Holmes did not often let his emotions show, but the door knew his expressions well enough to be certain Holmes grew lonely. He buried himself in his work, though, and did not complain of it. Watson still visited, sometimes, but increasingly less often. The door wished Watson was not so busy, and rather thought Holmes felt the same.

More years passed, and the door learned of a vast criminal network which Holmes was working to overthrow. Professor Moriarty was the name of its leader, a name the door learned to despise, for it brought cases Holmes could not solve, or could not prove in court, and that always left Holmes in a foul mood for weeks. It was a long time, though, before the door had a face to go with the name of Moriarty.

One day an angry gentlemen with gray hair and a bit of chalk on his coat knocked upon his surface. If only he had known this was the Moriarty fellow, he would have made his hinges rust up at once and never have let him in! Holmes took to leaving by other windows and doors after that. That night, three men in dark coats and hats with their faces hidden arrived and picked his lock (the gall!) and proceeded, to his horror, to set fire to the rooms. They were long gone before the fire brigade arrived. The door had never seen Mrs. Hudson so distraught.

The door only saw Holmes once after that, and then he was gone. The door thought perhaps he was away on a case, but Mrs. Hudson was crying too much for that. 221b grew very lonely, and the door thought that surely they would have new tenants soon, but a portly man the door had only seen once before, he thought the name was Mycroft, came and offered to pay Mrs. Hudson to leave all of the younger Holmes's things and not take new tenants.

This did not seem quite the usual way of doing business to the door, but it was hardly his choice, so he stayed quiet about it.

It was three years before anything changed, but when they did the door could not have been more surprised or pleased, even when it involved a fellow they called Moran shooting at the second story window. Holmes moved back in, and soon Watson did too. It was just like old times. The door sometimes wondered what had happened to Mary, but Watson still had Holmes at least, and Holmes was kinder now than he used to be.

It was years before anything changed. There were many more clients and cases, and new Inspectors as those Holmes had worked with retired. Soon Holmes, too, decided to retire. To Sussex, no less. The door was rather sad that Holmes did not feel he could retire here, but he understood: 221b was a well known spot, now. In fact, the door was beginning to feel rather famous. He was stared and pointed at now far more than he had when he was a young door.

And so Holmes left, and Watson too; Watson decided to work full-time as a doctor once more elsewhere. The door was glad that they gave Mrs. Hudson enough money that she did not need to find new tenants: she was getting rather advanced in years now (even doors know not to call a woman "old"), and he did not like the idea of her taking a fall whilst bringing tea to some new tenant who could never be as kind as Doctor Watson.

Years passed, and soon everyone was gone. Mrs. Hudson had a niece who moved in and raised her family there. When all her children were grown and moved out, a few gentlemen in sharp suits came and asked if they could purchase it from her: they wanted to make it into a museum.

This niece, who had heard many stories about Holmes from her aunt, thought this was an excellent idea, and soon the restorations began. Of course there were some weaker walls and windows that needed replacing, but the door was a sturdy one (a fact of which he was quite proud) and only required a new coat of paint.

Now once again, the door at 221b Baker Street sees people from all sorts of places and professions coming in, to have a look at the way the rooms were back when his favorite tenants lived there, knowing that they will never be forgotten. This door feels he is quite a lucky door indeed.


	13. Spilled Tea

**December 13: "Spilled tea causes a sudden disaster." (from Sparky Dorian)**

 **A/N: I had to go this direction with this one. Please forgive any technical errors; I know very little about ceremonial ship launchings. But I have no regrets. xD**

* * *

"Well?" I asked when I arrived in my brother's office. He had summoned me, and I had come. "You said there was an interesting case for me?"

Mycroft set down his pen and turned to face me. "Yes, there is. Yesterday evening, the ceremonial launching of the new ship called Tranquility just as the queen was finishing her speech, the harbor surrounding it began to change colour, surrounding the entire ship."

"And…?" I asked impatiently. "Did you discover the cause?"

"Based on the chemical tests we have done, it would seem to be tea," my brother replied.

This is ridiculous! I thought. "So some idiot American decided to dump tea into the harbor and the British government is hiring a detective?"

My brother bristled. "It may be a threat to national security—"

"Mycroft, in all our years, this is the most ridiculous request I have ever received from you!" I laughed. "Brother mine, you may be unaware of this, but I do have legitimate clients who present me with legitimate cases, and as such, I don't have the time—"

"That would be a relatively convincing argument, Sherlock, if I could not see your lack of current cases in your shirt cuffs and morning shave," said Mycroft, with one of his more condescending smiles. "All I am asking you to do is to look into the matter. The Queen says that she is not amused by this at all."

I sighed heavily. "Fine. I doubt there is any real danger, but I shall look into it."


	14. An Expensive Purchase

**December 14: "What might a modern day-AU look like to you? No BBC Sherlock, no CBS Elementary—just your own imagination. Imagine these characters in the modern day!" (from Aleine Skyfire)**

 **A/N: What a great prompt! To my immense surprise, I've never actually thought about this before. So here goes!**

* * *

It was late December, and Sherlock hadn't had a case in weeks. John was glad he'd had is phone on silent at work, as he'd missed seven texts from his friend, none of them overly specific. He sighed as he read them in the cab on the way home.

 _Off to purchase what we discussed. Sent at 10:34 PM._

John frowned. He couldn't remember this conversation.

 _Pricier than I expected. Sent at 12:08 PM._

That didn't sound promising.

 _Why aren't you answering? Sent at 2:45 PM._

 _Nvm. I checked your calendar. Forgot you worked today. Sent at 2:51 PM._

Typical Sherlock. John rolled his eyes.

 _Well worth the £500! Sent at 4:29 PM._

Good heavens…

 _Aren't you usually home by now? Sent at 5:40 PM._

At least Sherlock had some sense of time. Unfortunately, he'd had to stay late as one of the other doctors was on maternity leave and another had come down with the flu.

 _How late will you be? Sent at 6:11 PM._

John sighed and typed a reply. _On my way. Had to cover for Dr. Jones. What did you buy?_

Naturally, Sherlock did not reply. When John arrived back home, he was anxious to see what he would find. He hoped Sherlock hadn't spent his money in a completely ridiculous way. Not that it was really his business, so long as his half of the rent was paid, but still.

"Is that you, John?" Sherlock's voice called from upstairs.

"Yes," John called back, hanging up his coat, glad to be in out of the cold. "What did you buy today?" he asked as he climbed up the stairs.

"Something incredible!" came Sherlock's reply.

John sighed. He hoped it wasn't anything another chemical that could eat through Mrs. Hudson's good carpets, or something that would set the curtains on fire. That had happened enough for one year. Or one lifetime, rather.

When he reached the top of the stairs, he saw that his friend was not destroying upholstery, but rather turning in a circle, while wearing a pair of strangely bulky black goggles.

"What the hell's on your head?" John asked with a chuckle. It looked ridiculous.

Sherlock flashed a grin and took it off. "This, my friend, is an Oculus Rift."

John frowned. "That's that virtual reality thing, isn't it?" _No wonder it cost so much._

Sherlock nodded.

"I didn't think you liked video games," said John.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John, as always, you see but you don't observe. Soon these won't just be for wealthy parents to purchase for their bored children. This is the future of criminology."

John frowned and sat down in his chair. He'd had enough standing for one day. "How do you you figure that?"

"Once the technology is perfected," said Sherlock, pacing quickly like he did when he was excited about something, "this will be able to be used to recreate crime scenes at trials. Not would the jury be able to see photos of blood and footprints and the like, they would be able to see the entire scene, as though they were there when the first detectives were. And who knows, they might actually be able to see a recreation of the crime being played out. Isn't it incredible?!"

"Sounds pretty morbid," John replied, "but I can see the advantages."

Sherlock gave a rare grin. "The future is going to be such an interesting place."

* * *

 **A/N: Inspired in equal parts by an article I read somewhere a couple weeks ago (no recollection of where I found it or why) about recreating crime scenes with virtual reality, and thinking of a somewhat Sherlock-ish friend of mine who was very excited to get an Oculus Rift a couple years ago.**


	15. Platform Nine and Three Quarters

**December 15: "Crossover with one of your other favorite fandoms, either as a normal crossover (characters from Fandom A meet characters from Fandom B) or as a fusion (characters of Fandom A replace the characters of Fandom B)." (from Aleine Skyfire)**

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was not nervous. Excited, certainly, but not nervous. The boy reminded himself of this as he pushed his trolley towards the brick wall that would take them to Platform 9 3/4.

"Hurry up, Shirley," said Mycroft, who would be a seventh year student this year.

Sherlock hastened to catch up to his brother. "Don't you dare call me that once we're around boys my age," he warned.

Mycroft only laughed. "Come on, you first."

"Just because you're Head Boy," Sherlock muttered as he began to sprint toward the wall.

A second later, and he was on the other side. The platform was packed with students and their parents bustling here and there, owls hooting and cats meowing as smoke from the engines billowed overhead. Hugs were being given and received and pets and luggage were nearly misplaced and then happily found again just in time for their owners to snatch them up and board the train. Sherlock paused to take in all the hustle and bustle, and a moment later his brother was giving him a little push forward, and he found himself in the midst of the crowd.

Sherlock allowed himself to fall into step behind his brother now, thankful that Mycroft was tall enough that he would not lose sight of him, and large enough to easily clear a path through the crowd. It was different, now that he was actually here to get on the train, instead of just seeing Mycroft off and returning home. It was also different to not be here without their aunt and uncle, who had decided that the boys were old enough to make it to the train on their own.

The train whistle blew, and Sherlock climbed up the steps into the train, just behind Mycroft. The two handed off their luggage.

"I have to go to be back car with the prefects," said Mycroft, even though he had already told Sherlock twice. "See you at Hogwarts, little brother."

Sherlock didn't bother replying; he was too busy looking for an empty compartment. Unfortunately, all of them seemed to have at least one person, and he was on the point of picking a stranger to join when he ran straight into a lanky youth exiting the compartment to his right.

"Sorry!" the boy exclaimed. "Blimey! Is that you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock blinked, trying to place where he had seen him before, then suddenly remembered. "Michael?"

"One and the same," the boy grinned. Michael Stamford had lived just down the street from Sherlock for years, but then his father had gotten a new job in Bristol and they hadn't seen one another in nearly three years. "Looking for somewhere to sit?"

Sherlock nodded. "I am, actually."

"You're welcome to join me," said Michael. "I'm sitting with a friend of mine here."

"All right," Sherlock replied.

Michael gestured for Sherlock to follow him into the compartment. Inside was another boy, shorter and stockier than Michael. He peered up at them with a friendly smile.

"John Watson, Sherlock Holmes," said Michael.

"How are you?" Sherlock greeted, shaking John's hand heartily. "You've been to Scotland, I see."

John's eyes widened in astonishment. "How on earth did you know that?"

Sherlock grinned. "Never mind."

"Well," said Stamford, "now that you two have been acquainted, I'm going to see if I can find us some sweets."


	16. Adventure Before Dawn

**December 16: "A crime in Mrs H's kitchen" (from Winter Winks 221)**

* * *

"Watson!"

I awoke with a start to the sound of Holmes whispering my name, and opened my eyes to see him leaning over me, lit candle in hand.

"What is it?" I asked, my voice still slurred with drowsiness. "A case?"

"Of a sort," Holmes replied. "Come quickly; we haven't much time."

I grudgingly obliged, pulling on my clothes quickly in the dark. I checked my watch: it was nearly five in the morning. I descended the stairs to find Holmes had not put on his winter coat and hat. I frowned; if he was in such a hurry to leave on a case, then-

"Come, Watson," said Holmes, and swiftly descended the stairs to the kitchen.

I sighed and followed. When I entered the room, Holmes was lighting the gas.

"What do you make of it, Watson?"

My jaw dropped. In the middle of the floor was the flour outline of a body. I blinked. A flour outline? There were flour footprints too, and a carving knife with flour on it lay next to the "body".

"Mrs. Hudson will have your head for this," I groaned.

"But can you tell what must have happened here?" Holmes insisted. "I am only trying to help you hone your skills, my dear fellow."

"You were a bloody idiot, that's what happened here," I replied, unsure whether to laugh or groan. I decided on a third course of action: let Holmes clean it up himself and go back to bed.

* * *

 **A/N: Too bad Watson wasn't a better sport about it, but would anyone be, if they were woken up before dawn for this? XD**


	17. Down the Chimney!

**December 17: "Chimney" (from Wordwielder)**

 **A/N: Crack-fic time! I asked my family for advice on what to do with this prompt, and this is what they requested...**

* * *

"Mr. Holmes!"

Watson and I could hear Mrs. Hudson's voice shrieking from the sitting room loud and clear, even a floor up with the door closed. We were in Watson's room as he showed me his latest model ship. I had no idea what she could be angry with me about, as I'd cleaned up the mess of flour so well she thought the maid had tidied, and I had not been in the kitchen since.

I communicated as much to Watson with a look as we headed down the stairs to the sitting room.

She was standing next to the fireplace, holding the poker in a way which suggested that she, rather than thinking of using it for its intended purpose, thought it would make a good weapon.

"What's the matter?" Watson asked before I could.

"The fireplace...there's a noise—"

A low growling noise followed by a tenor shout issued from the chimney.

"Hello?" I called up the chimney.

"Sorry, Mr. Holmes!" called a familiar voice.

I turned to meet Watson's gaze.

"Is that Lestrade?" he asked.

I gave a nod, baffled as to what the detective was doing in our chimney.

"Can you get down?" I called.

"I—I'm a bit stuck!" he replied, followed by a yelp.

I crouched into the fireplace and looked up to see two booted feet dangling about three feet above my head. I grabbed one of his ankles and Watson grabbed the other. "Ready?" I asked. Without waiting for an answer, I gave a nod to Watson and we tugged the unfortunate detective down the chimney. He landed heavily in the ashes, and he was about the same colour as them. If it wasn't for his familiar voice, I never could have sworn to his identity. His hair appeared to be especially atrocious—wait, was it moving?

Lestrade's hair jumped into his lap, and meowed. "I found your kitten, Mrs. Hudson," said he with a sheepish sigh. "He was climbing on the rooftop and to make a long story short, we both fell down the chimney. I'm so very sorry for the mess!"

But I could barely hear the poor man apologising over the sound of Watson's and Mrs. Hudson's laughter. Even I could not suppress a chuckle and neither could Lestrade, although he may have mostly been coughing the smoke out of his lungs. Already it was proving to be a highly unusual day.


	18. Parlour Games

**December 18: "Parlour games." (from mrspencil)**

 **A/N: Somewhat inspired by A Christmas Carol, though I'm not sure how recognisable the nod is. Also, I learned the word "zounderkite" today, which is why it makes an appearance later. Couldn't help myself; it's a great word. :D**

* * *

"No, I'm afraid you shan't be going anywhere for quite some time," said Mrs. Hudson. "There is quite a blizzard sweeping London this evening, it would seem."

Holmes scowled, and his brother Mycroft seemed no less happy about the sudden change in the weather.

"Come now," said my darling wife to the Holmes brothers. "I am sure it won't be as bad as all that."

"Thank you, Mary," Mrs. Hudson replied. "I do have plenty of food, after all, and I'm sure you lot will find something to do."

"Stay a minute," I said to our housekeeper. "Perhaps to pass the time we could play a game."

"Excellent idea, John," said Mary.

Holmes did not look overly enthusiastic, but Mycroft (to my surprise) straightened up and said that he could think of no better way to pass the time.

Mrs. Hudson beamed and took a chair.

"Well," said Holmes, who seemed resigned to the situation, "what sort of game do you propose?"

Mary thought a moment. "Well, we could play Dictionary."

"No use," said Holmes. "Mycroft probably knows every word in it."

Mycroft huffed, but did not deny it.

"What about Look-About?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "Oh dear, no, one of the Holmes brothers will win every time."

"How about I'm Thinking of Something?" I suggested. There was general agreement all round, and Holmes was chosen to go first.

"Is it a living thing?" I asked.

"Yes," Holmes replied.

"Is it a cat?" asked Mrs. Hudson.

"No."

"A dog?" asked Mary.

"Certainly not," Holmes said.

"Is it a large creature?" I asked.

"Quite large in some respects," Holmes responded, chuckling.

"Is it smaller than an elephant?" asked Mary.

"Oh yes," he replied.

"Is it a mammal?" asked Mycroft.

"Certainly," said Holmes.

"Is it a predator?" I asked.

Holmes considered for a moment. "Sometimes," he said a length.

"Is it ever friendly?" asked Mary.

"Rarely," Holmes replied.

"Is it an exotic creature?" asked Mrs. Hudson.

"No, not at all," was his reply.

"Is it native to Europe, then?" I asked.

"Absolutely," Holmes affirmed.

"Are there any in London?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"Only one," Holmes replied with a grin.

Mary was frowning. "A large European creature, that is smaller than an elephant, is sometimes a predator, is unfriendly, and resides in London..." she repeated slowly.

"Sherlock, you zounderkite!" Mycroft growled. "It's me!"

The younger Holmes threw back his head and gave the fullest laugh I had heard from any soul in weeks, and soon the rest of us could not help laughing as well. He was practically wiping tears from his eyes by the time his mirth had subsided.

"I do believe it's my turn now," said Mycroft, after rolling his eyes at his brother's antics. "I'll wager you'll never guess this one, Sherlock..."


	19. Consulting Mycroft Holmes

**December 19: "Holmes goes Christmas shopping" (from Book girl fan)**

* * *

Sherlock Holmes had not celebrated Christmas since he was a child, and as such, was not prepared for the joy his flat mate seemed to exude when December arrived. He was even less prepared for the moment he deduced from Watson's boots and umbrella that he had gone and purchased Holmes a present. He did not know how to deal with this situation, but when Sherlock Holmes was out of his depth, there was only one person he would consult.

"There is a simple solution," said Mycroft in an amused tone. "Buy him a present in return."

"Well, yes, I was planning on it," the younger Holmes replied irritably. "But what should I give him?"

Mycroft gave a great shrug. "You know the Doctor far better than I do."

"I have no idea what Watson wants," said Holmes.

"Well, what does he do with his free time? Has he any hobbies?" asked Mycroft.

Holmes thought a moment. "He gambles at times, reads...he writes on occasion as well."

"Perhaps a book, or journal if you are not sure what sort of book he would like," Mycroft suggested.

"Hm!" replied Holmes. "Yes, I think a journal would work quite nicely. I shall see myself out, then."

"Oh—Sherlock," said Mycroft before his brother could leave.

"Yes?" he replied, taking a step back into the room.

"Does this mean I will receive a Christmas present this year?" Mycroft quirked an eyebrow.

"Ha!" Holmes replied. "I'm afraid my budget's a bit too tight for that, brother mine."

Later that afternoon, Holmes returned to Baker Street with two paper-wrapped items: a smart little journal for Watson and a bottle of good wine for Mycroft. It is hard to say who was more surprised to receive a gift from Sherlock Holmes.


	20. Blue Ribbon

**December 20: "Ribbon" (from Wordwielder)**

* * *

A small package arrived two days before Christmas, wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with a ribbon of the darkest midnight blue. It seemed to have come with the mail, but there was no return address. Watson saw it first, but it was addressed to Holmes, and so he left it alone. To his surprise, Holmes left the package unopened, instead moving it underneath the Christmas tree in the corner.

When Christmas Eve arrived, Holmes wordlessly began to open the package. Watson was, by now, extremely curious about who it might be from and why Holmes waited until now to open it, but said nothing. The blue ribbon, which he removed with the precision of the surgeon and the delicacy of an artist, was carefully set aside and the brown paper removed to reveal a small box. Holmes opened it to reveal a snow globe, containing a miniature Eiffel Tower and a tiny frozen pond with little ice skaters holding hands and making figure eights upon it. He gently shook the little thing, and snowflakes began to surround the merry skaters. He flipped it over to look at the bottom, upon which a message was written in a feminine script: "Merry Christmas, Mr. Holmes."

"Who is it from?" Watson asked quietly.

"Irene Norton," Holmes replied. "I suppose she must be in France for the holiday."

"I suppose so," Watson replied. "But how did you know?"

"The ribbon," said Holmes, slipping it off the side table and holding it towards Watson. "She wore a ribbon of this precise colour in her hair the day I pretended to be an old clergyman and she brought me in to her settee."

"Ah," replied Watson. That was a long time ago, though, he thought to himself. How had Holmes remembered such a fact for nearly fifteen years?


	21. Early Morning

**December 21: "An impromptu invitation." (from Sparky Dorian)**

 **A/N: This one's short due to a combination of sleepiness, busyness and laziness. Hopefully I can step up my game soon. :)**

* * *

Lestrade awoke to the sound of knocking. The master bedroom was unusually close to the front of the house, allowing him to hear quite clearly any noises from the doorstep. He crept out of bed, careful not to jostle his sleeping wife, and pulled on a dressing gown before stumbling to the door. Opening it revealed Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson standing on his doorstep. Against his better judgement, Lestrade let them in.

"Sorry to trouble you so early in the morning," said Watson.

 _Early?_ Thought Lestrade, who felt as though he had only just gone to bed. He glanced at the hall clock, which read a quarter past four. So he had not even managed five hours of sleep. _Marvellous_ , he thought irritably, but what he said was: "No trouble at all, Doctor. What brings you two here at this hour?"

"The West End jewel thief is about to strike again," said Holmes. "Can you dress in under five minutes?"

Lestrade did not need to be asked twice. This was just the sort of big case he needed to get himself a promotion by Christmas!


	22. Fire Hazards

**December 22: "Neglect." (from Spockologist)**

* * *

Of all the Christmas traditions for Holmes to enjoy, why did it have to be something related to fire?

Mrs. Hudson and I had just finished decorating the sitting room (while Holmes was out, of course), when we heard the front door slam and Holmes' distinct quick step upon the stairs. When he entered the room, he cocked an eyebrow but said nothing and disappeared into his room.

I glanced at Mrs. Hudson, who shrugged.

"Well, that is a better reaction to our decorations than we got last year," she said, and I could not disagree.

That afternoon, Mrs. Hudson went out for groceries and I to take care of a colleague's practice, leaving Holmes effectively there alone (as the poor maid hired two months ago was still too frightened of Holmes to go near him). When I returned, it was to the sight of the sitting room full of candles, flickering merrily every direction I could look. Three were clustered here on the table, three more over there on the sideboard, two at either end of the mantle, six scattered among his chemistry equipment, and a countless number adorning the tree in the corner, rendering the room nearly bright as day.

I knocked on the door to his bedroom. "Holmes, could I have a quick word with you?"

The door swung open almost immediately. "Yes?" Holmes asked impatiently.

"If you insist on covering every surface of the sitting room with candles, could you at least make an effort not to neglect them? This flat is enough of a fire hazard without tempting fate in this manner."

Holmes sighed. "If you insist, but I do think you worry too much."

I did not think so, and my fears later proven right at the expense of Mrs. Hudson's curtains. It was only after Holmes and I found ourselves explaining the situation to the fire brigade, that Holmes decided we didn't need quite so many candles adorning our sitting room.


	23. Christmas Kindness

**December 23: "Love is in the air." (from I'm Nova)**

 **A/N: I went for love-your-neighbor love rather than the romantic sort. Oh, well; I had a lot of fun with this. :)**

 **Mrs. Hudson's POV. Takes place on the 23rd of December.**

* * *

That first Christmas after Mr. Holmes returned from his supposed "death," I had no idea what to expect, but I certainly did not expect what happened.

"Mrs. Hudson!" called Mr. Holmes from across the flat. With a sigh, I brushed the flour from my hands onto my apron and ascended the stairs.

"What is it?" I asked when I reached the sitting room.

"How difficult is it to knit a hat?" asked Mr. Holmes.

I was struck dumb with shock for a moment. "Well, it does take practice, but I think you would figure it out quickly. Why do you ask?"

"I was thinking of giving hats to my Irregulars for Christmas," said Mr. Holmes. "It's been so cold this year. Would you teach me?"

"Of course!" I replied. "Just let me finish up in the kitchen and you'll be knitting in no time."

Mr. Holmes was, as I'd expected, a quick learner. By mid-morning, he had the hang of it pretty well, and after swearing me to secrecy, disappeared into his bedroom with the better part of my collection of yarn.

Noon came soon, and with it came Dr. Watson, who had lately been working only in the mornings.

"Mrs. Hudson," said he in a low, conspiratorial tone when I brought him his luncheon, "I've been trying to figure out what I ought to give Holmes for Christmas, and I know you are a bit of an artist-"

"It's only a hobby, dear," I hastened to say.

"Well, you are good nonetheless," said the Doctor with a smile, "and I was wondering if you could help me do a painting of the Reichenbach Falls. It's a strange request, I know, but it seems like the right gift to give him this year."

"Of course I'll help you," I said with a smile. Within a couple of hours, Watson was at work in his room with thick paper and most of my paints, and it looked like he would be able to paint a passable Reichenbach Falls by evening.

Around three, I heard a knock on the back door, and found three Irregulars standing on the other side of it.

"Hullo ma'am," said Tom as I let the boys inside. "We were wonerin' if you could help us bake biscuits for Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. I think they'd like it a lot."

"I'm certain they will," I replied, and once they had their hands clean, we began on the biscuits. I decided to make chocolate chip ones, as those don't require frosting and I already had the ingredients handy. We made a double batch, so that the boys would have plenty for themselves and their families too.

At a quarter past five, Inspector Lestrade arrived at Baker Street.

"I'm so glad you answered the door, Mrs. Hudson," said he in a low voice. "We at the Yard were wondering if you could help us with our gift to Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson this year. Hopkins suggested that we sing a few carols outside the flat, and I thought that if anyone would know the best time we could do that, it would be you."

"Six would be the best time, I imagine," I replied. "They will have had dinner, and will have the Irregulars over for a little gift exchange."

"Perfect!" Lestrade replied. "Thank you very much."

I was about halfway through making supper when the last person I would have expected to call on me arrived: Mr. Mycroft Holmes.

"Good evening, Mrs. Hudson," he greeted me in a low voice. "I am having a bit of difficulty in my gift for Sherlock. I've purchased him a new bow for his violin, but all the shops I checked were out of paper and ribbon, so I wondered if you had any I could use."

I did, and gladly handed it over to him.

When Christmas Eve arrived, I thoroughly enjoyed seeing all of the various gifts change hands, and carols sung and all of the joy and camaraderie all around, and I'll challenge you or anybody else to find a group of friends better at keeping the Christmas spirit alive than those who gather at Baker Street.


	24. Secret Santa

**A/N: Merry Christmas, everyone!**

 **December 24: "Secret Santa" (from Wordwielder)**

* * *

I had not been to a Christmas party since my college days, so when Watson and I were invited to the Scotland Yard Christmas party, and informed there would be a Secret Santa gift exchange, I felt rather out of practice.

I was to buy for Lestrade, and Watson for Gregson. My Boswell's task was easy: for the past month, Gregson had been informing anyone who would listen that he could use new cufflinks. I was not so fortunate, and as such, had to work a bit harder to figure out what Lestrade wanted.

"Cor, gov!" exclaimed Tom the Irregular. "That much just ta follow Mr. Lestrade for th' day?"

"I need to figure out what he wants for Christmas, and this is his only full day off," I explained. "Watch all that he does and I hope we will be able to unravel this mystery."

"For what your payin', Oi'll know what 'e wants by lunchtime!" With that, Tom was on his way.

At about a quarter past one, there was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Hudson showed little Tom into the sitting room, followed by none other than Inspector Lestrade, who wore an amused smirk.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes," said he. "I found this little ragamuffin following me about town this morning, and he tells me it was under your orders, in order to figure out what I wanted for Christmas."

I straightened my posture a little, all too aware of how utterly ridiculous I must look to the Inspector. "Yes, that is correct."

Lestrade burst into a hearty laugh. "You know, Holmes," he said, "you could have simply asked me. If you still need an idea, I could use a new pair of thick gloves."

"Thank you," I said, hoping my face did not betray my embarrassment.

"Your boys are excellent at spying on unsuspecting criminals," said Lestrade, his tone gently berating, "but I would recognise Tom's curly hair anywhere."

That was the first and last time I had an Irregular tail a Scotland Yard Inspector.


	25. Warms the Heart

**December 25: "Warmth." (from Sparky Dorian)**

* * *

Christmas of 1891 was the coldest one I could recall. Having been deprived only months before of my dearest friend, there was a chill in my heart which was only compounded by the dreadful weather.

"John, you're positively shaking!" Mary exclaimed when I arrived home on Christmas Eve. Pneumonia takes no heed of holidays, so I had spent most of the day making house calls and trying to keep the chill out of my bones. I was exhausted and freezing, and it was a great relief to feel the warmth of the fire once I had shed all of my winter things and sat down on the little settee next to my wife.

I soon found my eyes wandering, as they often did in those days, to a picture on the wall near the fireplace: a sketch of my late friend Sherlock Holmes, which a friend from St. Bartholomew's Hospital had drawn for me.

"I miss him too," said Mary, who by now was as adept at reading my thoughts as Holmes ever was. "But while we may mourn what is gone, we must remember to treasure what we still have."

"Of course," I replied, tearing my gaze from the drawing to meet Mary's tender blue eyes, and pulled her closer to me. There is nothing that can thaw a chilled heart so well as love.


	26. Mary's Biscuits

**December 26: "Chocolate." (from Book girl fan)**

* * *

The first Christmas after my marriage was spent at my new home with my beloved Mary and our friends, and while Holmes had been cordially invited, he did not come. It was quite a shame, as Mary had prepared what was (in my opinion) the best Christmas dinner good old London had ever seen, leaving all of us more stuffed than the turkey had been, and that was before she brought out the biscuits.

Despite the fact that he considered himself to be a brain which happened to have a body attached, Sherlock Holmes enjoyed dessert more than any man or woman I'd ever known, especially dessert involving chocolate. He tended only to partake of it during the brief period between the conclusion of a case and the intellectual stagnation which followed it, but Mary had so many delicious chocolate chip biscuits left that it seemed a shame not to share them with him.

"You're in luck, Doctor," said Mrs. Hudson when she let me into 221b and I explained my errand. "He ate three square meals yesterday and breakfast this morning, so I daresay he'll take a keen interest in Mary's baking."

"Excellent!" I replied, eagerly tramping up the remaining six stairs to the sitting room.

"Good afternoon, Holmes," I greeted my friend cheerfully.

Holmes glanced up at me from the newspaper he had been reading.

"Ah, Watson," said he. "I knew you would come. I suppose you have brought me some of Mary's baking?"

I set the box of biscuits upon the table. "Chocolate chip biscuits," I informed him.

Holmes quirked a grin. "Thank you, my dear fellow."

"I do wish you had come yesterday," I said.

Holmes gave an impish grin. "Why would I do that, when I know I shall enjoy the best of Mary's culinary skills even if I do not come at all?"

I rolled my eyes. "Next year, I'll make sure you don't receive any biscuits unless you come to Christmas dinner."

"That is cruel and unusual, Watson." Holmes shook his head slowly, pressed his lips into a thin line, though his eyes betrayed his continued good humour.

"The threat stands," I replied, wagging a finger at him.

Holmes laughed, but when he did not come to Christmas dinner the next year, I made good on that threat. And the year after that, Holmes did come. I am convinced it is no coincidence.


	27. Splinter

**December 27: "Splinters." (from Riandra)**

* * *

When one writes a story, it is of the utmost importance that only those details important to the development of plot or characters are included, or one risks boring the reader with irrelevant details. It is for this reason that when I wrote my account of Holmes' triumph over Colonel Moran, I did not mention that I received a splinter on the side of my hand in that empty house.

It was pitch dark, and though Holmes grasped my left wrist to lead me through the house, I had my right hand stretched before me. I did it out of impulse, I suppose, but I wish I had resisted it, for my hand met with a sharp bit of wood on the doorframe of the last room we entered. I pressed my lips together tightly to avoid making any sound. It was only a small splinter, I told myself. I had suffered far worse in the past, and there was no use asking Holmes for a light to see it by, for our errand was a covert one and I knew we could not risk it.

All the while that we waited for Moran, watched him ready the airgun, and fire at Holmes' bust in the window, the blasted piece of wood remained firmly embedded in my hand. While it was very tempting to try removing it blindly, I did not want to risk breaking it or pushing it further into my skin.

As such, I was glad indeed when Lestrade has taken Moran under arrest and Holmes and I were finally able to return to 221b. To my frustration, the immense shock and excitement of the day was taking its toll, causing my hands to quiver when I tried to hold them still to remove the blasted sliver of wood. The fact that it was lodged in my dominant hand only made the task more difficult.

"Come now, Watson," came Holmes' voice from behind me.

I gave a start, for I had not noticed him approaching.

"Give me your hand." His tone had a kinder edge to it than I remembered ever hearing from him.

I did so, and holding it in a vice-like grasp, he plucked the splinter quickly free.

"Thank you," I said, as he threw the thing into the crackling flames.

He gave a quick smile, which did not quite meet his eyes. "It is the least I can do, after all you have endured." He sat down heavily in his chair, his sharp features pensive.

I sat in my own chair, and took a moment to choose my words. "Consider all thousand apologies accepted," I said.

Holmes looked up at me in some surprise, opened his mouth as if to speak, then seemed think better of it, and only smiled.


	28. Ill Will To Men

**December 28:** **"For hate is strong and mocks the song of 'peace on earth, goodwill to men.'" (from** **Aleine Skyfire)**

* * *

It was evening of Christmas day, and Inspector Lestrade was settling down to a comfortable cup of hot cocoa with his wife and two children. The day had been a peaceful one, and he could not imagine a better way to end it.

That is, until there came a violent knocking at the door. Stifling a groan, Lestrade hurried to answer it. A breathless Constable Hopkins stood on the doorstep, panting. "We need your help, Inspector," he gasped. "I'm sorry—I know it's Christmas, but there are hostages, at least forty, and we need you. Here's the address." He handed Lestrade a slip of paper with the address.

Lestrade gave a nod. "I'm on my way."

"Thank you," said Hopkins, and departed.

Lestrade returned to his sitting room for a moment. "I'm so sorry, dear ones," he said. "Apparently the criminals of London do not even respect Christmas anymore."

His wife smiled. "We understand."

"Throw them in prison where they belong," his son added.

Inspector Lestrade gave a grim nod. That was precisely what he intended to do.


	29. Sleeping In

**December 29: "Sleeping in." (from Winter Winks 221)**

* * *

Dr. John Watson was never an early riser if he did not need to be, and today, he had no commitments until late afternoon. When he awoke to the light streaming in the window, he drowsily checked the time (only half past eight), smiled to himself, and returned to sleep.

The second time he awoke was not nearly so pleasant.

"Watson," came a voice, only slightly louder than a whisper.

 _Maybe if I ignore him, he'll go away,_ thought Watson.

"Watson!" came the voice again.

It was Holmes. Watson suppressed a groan. His bed was far too comfortable for this kind of nonsense.

"I can tell you are not actually asleep," said Holmes. "Come, Watson; we have work to do."

Maybe Holmes had work to do, but Watson was busy sleeping in.

"There's a beautiful young woman in the sitting room," said Holmes.

Watson opened an eye. "Really?"

"Yes, it's the maid. She's dusting again," said Holmes. "Now get out of bed."

Watson groaned and sat up. "All right, all right. What was that about work to do?"

"Hopkins brought a case," Holmes replied. "Four men have disappeared from a reputable gentleman's club without a trace. Apparently the only witness is a very profane parrot."

"Fascinating," Watson replied as he dragged himself out of bed.

"Can you be ready in ten minutes?" Holmes asked.

Watson laughed. "You and I both know I can be ready in five."

Holmes pulled out his pocket watch with a flourish. "I'm holding you to that!" He laughed before slamming Watson's door behind him.

Watson glanced again at his clock: a quarter past nine. Perhaps he could sleep in later tomorrow.


	30. Jerry the Joker

**December 30: "Just get on with it!" (from Sparky Dorian)**

 **A/N: No idea why this is what came to mind when I read this prompt, but I offer no apologies!**

* * *

I have dealt with many criminals in my time, but none quite so obnoxious as Jerry the Joker.

Watson was busy and Lestrade engaged upon another case, so I had decided to pursue a minor smuggling ring on my own. As it turned out, the entire ring was composed of one man by the name of Jerry Johnson, who had used a variety of false names and disguises to evade police, and was now using a variety of criminal-related jokes to drive me insane.

"Hey, Mr. Holmes," said Johnson with a grin.

I did not even bother answering.

"Did you hear about the calendar thief? He got twelve months."

I groaned.

Johnson's face split into a grin. "They say his days are numbered!"

"How positively hilarious," I said, wishing the police would arrive and put him in custody. I'd sent a telegram to Scotland Yard as soon as I'd dragged Johnson back to Baker Street, which was hours ago. I looked at the clock. Well, half an hour ago. If I round up. It certainly felt like hours!

"Do you know what they'd call you, Mr. Holmes, if you committed a crime and then went down a flight of stairs?"

"That's terribly specific," I said.

"A condescending con descending!" Johnson howled with laughter.

"Ha," I replied humorlessly.

Mrs. Hudson entered the room bearing a tray of tea and biscuits. Her lips were pressed tightly together and her shoulders shaking.

"Mrs. Hudson!" I exclaimed.

"Mr. Holmes!" she replied, setting the tray upon the table.

"You cannot be laughing at the antics of this—this buffoon!"

She stifled another chuckle. "I didn't hear any of the others, but that last one was rather good."

"Hmph!" It was a mixture of a crude taunt and mildly clever pun, delivered in the most mediocre fashion; not what I would define "good" at all.

Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes. "Well, there's some tea and biscuits, if either of you would like some."

"Thank you!" said Johnson, and took a handful of biscuits. "Mm, these are delicious!"

I scoffed. "He's a smuggler, not a guest!"

"At least he appreciates my baking," Mrs. Hudson replied with a sly grin and departed again.

"Mr. Holmes," said Johnson, through a mouthful of biscuit.

"Don't you you start again," I warned.

"What's the difference between a thief and a church bell?"

I sighed and rubbed my temple.

"One steals from people, the other peals from a steeple!"

I could not suppress a small snort at that one; perhaps I would repeat it to Watson if I had the chance. Most of his jokes were not nearly so amusing, however, and I was glad when the ring at the bell announced the arrival of Inspector Gregson. I cannot say I had ever been so glad to see a Scotland Yard Inspector!

"Thank God you've finally arrived!" I exclaimed when Gregson entered the sitting room with two constables.

"Well, what's he done?" asked Gregson.

"He's been inundating me with terrible jokes for nearly an hour," I groaned.

Gregson laughed. "Well, that's no criminal offense!"

"It should be," I muttered. "Mr. Johnson here is the entire smuggling ring Scotland Yard has been looking for for the past week. Take all the credit; I just want him out of here."

"Care for a joke?" Johnson asked Gregson.

Gregson shrugged and crossed his arms. "It better be a good one."

"Oh, just get on with it!" I cried, but no one listened.

"What do you call a psychic midget who's escaped from prison?"

Gregson thought for a moment. "No idea," he replied.

"A small medium at large!" crowed Johnson.

Gregson and both constables burst into hearty laughter.

"I'll be telling that one to my wife later," chuckled one constable to the other as they hauled Jerry Johnson out the door.

"Good day to you, Mr. Holmes," said Gregson cheerfully.

I gave a nod in reply, and closed the door behind them. Finally! My only consolation was that this was going to make an excellent story to tell Watson.


	31. Home

**December 31: "Holmes and Watson reflect on their year." (from Spockologist)**

* * *

New Years Eve of 1894 was an especially peaceful one. No clients had come calling, but Holmes had not fallen into boredom; in fact, he seemed almost excited to bring in the new year.

I returned from purchasing a bottle of champagne to find Holmes standing before the sitting room window softly humming Auld Lang Syne.

I set down the bottle next to two champagne flutes upon the table. "Care for a drink?" I asked as I carefully removed the cork.

Holmes ceased his humming abruptly and whirled around; apparently he had not heard me return. "Of course," he replied with one of his quick smiles.

I poured a glass and handed it to him. "It's been quite a year, hasn't it?" I commented.

"Indeed," Holmes replied.

January had deprived me of my wife, April had returned Holmes to me, and in May I sold my old home and practice and moved back into Baker Street, where Holmes and I had, albeit slowly, returned to our old way of life.

"Are you going to pour yourself any champagne, or do you intend to continue staring into space with the bottle in your hand all night?" Holmes' amused voice broke in on my thoughts.

I laughed, and poured myself a glass. "I'm afraid I was lost in thought, my dear fellow."

"So I deduced," Holmes replied.

"Ah, but can you divine my thoughts with your _dazzling_ deductions?" I asked with a smirk.

Holmes gave a quiet huff, but the glint in my eyes told me he had taken the comment as intended. "If I were to make a conjecture, I would say you were thinking about all that has come to pass this year."

"You would be correct, though that one was rather too easy," I said, grinning widely at Holmes as I sat down in my chair.

Holmes laughed, then seated himself in his chair opposite me. His expression grew contemplative. "I am glad to spend New Year's Eve back in Baker Street."

"Absolutely," I agreed.

We sat in peaceful silence, which was broken by the eventual arrival of Mrs. Hudson. "Do you require anything yet this evening?" she asked.

"We're quite all right," I replied with a smile. "Please, help yourself to some champagne and have a seat. You've done plenty." Indeed she had; dinner had been marvelous!

She beamed. "You are too kind, Doctor. I think I just might." Our dear landlady helped herself to bit of the drink and settled herself onto the settee with a contented sigh.

It was good to be home.

* * *

 **A/N: _HUGE_ thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed this year, especially the wonderful HadesLordoftheDead, without whom this challenge would not be possible. A Happy New Year to all!**


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